


Imprison the Mind

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: dispatch_box, Community: mere_appendix, Drugs, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV Alternating, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: During the investigation of a gruesome case, Sherlock Holmes falls into the hands of the criminals...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 5





	Imprison the Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sketches of Baker Street](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/671212) by Arisprite. 



> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010.
> 
> _Original A/N on LJ:_ All canon characters were created by ACD, all original characters belong to me and may not be used without my permission.  
> This ficlet was inspired by one of Arisprite's lovely sentences ("31. Clutch") in the story Sketches of Baker Street over at ff.net (klick the title to get there). Plotbunny was used with permission, of course.  
> The title was inspired by the quote at the beginning of the story. POV switches between Watson and Gregson.  
> Crossposted to ff-net, mere_appendix and dispatch_box
> 
> _Original A/N on FF.net:_ Inspired by Sketches of Baker Street by Arisprite (thanks!), sentence 31: 
> 
> 31\. Clutch  
> After the terror of the case, the narrow escapes from certain death for both of them, and worst of all, the capture and torture of his best friend, the final straw to his emotional control came when he felt Holmes' thin hands twisting desperately into the back of his jacket.

_You can chain me, you can torture me, you can even destroy this body, but you will never imprison my mind._

\- Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

  
_Watson_

  
“Holmes!” I cleared my throat as my voice faltered and broke. My throat was long raspy and dry, and I had to face it: In the darkness, the fog, during the scuffle, I had lost sight of Holmes. Now, he was gone.

I knew well that he could not have run off by his own decision – he would never have left my back unguarded in a fight for life and death as this one. He would never have left me to my fate if he had somehow managed to shake off his attackers.

There remained only one possible conclusion, then. He had been overpowered, and taken away – which hopefully meant that he was still alive, though how long this state would last was beyond me to say.

We had not expected to be accosted in the warehouse we were investigating, there had been no sign at all of the presence of anyone. By a brilliant string of deduction, Holmes had been able to ascertain that this was the place where _all_ previous victims of this vile group of criminals had died, not just the last, but there had been no signs of their presence at all. It was just possible that he had been mistaken. But then, we had been attacked.

They had come out of nowhere, four men, strong, violent, each of them armed with a penknife. The largest of them had taken it upon himself to crash me to a pulp between the wall and his massive body, but when I finally managed to place three strategic blows with my walking stick, he had scampered away, hunched and whimpering.

But by that time, Holmes was already gone. He had managed to knock out one of his attackers who was now loaded into the maria Gregson had arrived in. Too late to do anything to stop them from abducting Holmes.

My friend had wanted to be at the warehouse before the 'bumbling Yarders' arrived.

This was not the time to panic. I had to think, trying to figure out how we could possibly find Holmes in time. I had definitely no desire to see him again in this very warehouse – only by then, he would no longer be himself, even if he was still alive.

I recalled the last victim, the one we had found tied to the staircase just a few paces from were I stood, all too vividly. No wonder the young doctor the Yarders had called in turned sick in terror and was quite unable to examine her. We knew what they had done to her. Small doses of belladonna at first, not enough to be deathly, but enough to produce the sensation of chocking and delirium, until after several days, as I estimated, the final dose was injected and the victim left for death in this warehouse. The dying minutes of that poor girl had been horrific, her intoxicated brain conjuring up enraging images. She snarled at me as I finally arrived, even tried to bite me as we attempted to release her. Then, she slipped into a coma and never emerged.

I would not, could not, let this happen to my dear friend.

“Doctor?”

“Inspector Gregson?”

“We will interview the prisoner as soon as he regains consciousness. I assume you would like to be present.”

“Indeed.”

“Don't worry, Doctor. We will find him.”

“We have to.”

_Gregson_

Dr Watson was a frightening sight to behold. I was sure that if he could have killed our prisoner by his gaze alone, the man would long have dropped from his chair, stone dead. Oh, Watson constrained himself well.

We had bets at the Yard what could possibly irate Holmes, but so far, none of us has seen him slip. If his control was iron, the doctor's certainly was. And with Holmes, it was probably less control and more lack of emotions, but the doctor was very calm whilst I could see the anger and concern flaring in the depth of his eyes.

The interview dragged on for hours already. Each hour, as we both knew, could be the last for Mr Sherlock Holmes. But the doctor's determination never wavered.

“For the last time, _you_. Where have you taken him?”

The man inched back in his chair, his shackles clattering. “I tell ye, I don't know.”

“Where is your gang lurking?”

“I won't tell ye!”

“Now, look here, Pearson,” I intervened. “If you talk now, you might escape the gallows. Else, it is the rope for you and your friends.”

“I don't care – without the detective, ye'll never find them.”

Which was probably true. Without Holmes, we wouldn't have had as much as a thread to follow.

Dr Watson leaned in until his face hovered mere inches from Pearson's. “May I tell you something, Pearson? It is quite a pleasant tale. Do you see this syringe? I have here a sample of your drug, Pearson. I have but to pierce your skin and push the plunger, and your bloodstream will be flooded by the drug. At first, you mouth will feel dry. Then, your face will start swelling. You will get very thirsty, but there will be no water. Your throat will feel constricted. Your pupils will dilate until you will see nothing at all, but what your mind conjures up. The visions will be horrible. You will be driven into hysterics. You muscles, especially those of the face, will contract spasmodically. Your pulse will slow. And then, you'll die.”

Even I was feeling uncomfortable by the coldness in the voice of the doctor, one I had known as gentle and friendly. I felt a shiver running down my spine as Watson retreated with a sickening smile, and Pearson stared at him, frozen, utter terror on his face.

“Trust me, Pearson, I will find a way. If you remain silent, and prefer to be hanged, I will find a way to slip belladonna in your next meal.”

Pearson turned to face me. “Inspector!”  
“I'm sure he would, Pearson. Now, talk!”

“All right, all right!”

_Watson_

The carriage sped through the night as fast as the driver would dare. If he brought me there in time, it would be more than worth the double fare.

Every minute was precious, every minute could be too late. It had taken me too long, it had taken me all day to finally get the location out of Pearson. It shouldn't have. The method should have occurred to me before – maybe it was because for the life of me I did not want to think about what Holmes was going through at the moment.

Gregson was rounding up several constables. He would follow in time, but I couldn't possibly wait that long.

There wasn't even a sentinel. The three remaining men had not spared a thought on the notion that someone would find them here, in the vilest areas of the London dockyards. After all, the trapdoor to their basement room where they held their victims was practically invisible in the dust.

I took the two who sat above it, playing cards, completely by surprise and had plunged them into oblivion with my walking stick before they even realised I was there.

The leader, who was certain to be below, with Holmes, would be harder to take out. He would have a gun with him, but so did I. My concern far outweighed my fear, but still, I could not let my control slip. It would do neither Holmes nor me any good when I became careless in my fury.

I cocked my revolver and slipped it in my coat pocket before I grasped a candle that had previously sat on the card table of the two unconscious criminals and pulled open the trapdoor.

A wooden ladder lead me into an underground hallway, which ended in a thick door. It was bolted from the outside – apparently, the leader had every confidence in his men. How easy it would have been to just leave him there, but how could I when Holmes was with him?

Even through the wood, I could hear the voices – the one voice I had feared I would never hear again. I only hoped I was not too late.

He did not sound like the Holmes I had know. His strong voice was now weak and low, slurred, and had taken on a pleading tone I hoped to never hear again.

“Please. Some water. Please.” Then, a chuckle died in his throat, and I knew that he was fighting delirium and the hysteric laughter it brought with them.

I could not let this continue.

Of course, the criminal had whirled around by the time the door had creaked open, but I had kept in the shadows, and by the time he spotted me, had knocked the gun out of his hand.

He dived for it, and I accosted him. For some moments, we rolled over the floor, locked in combat, then the but of my revolver connected with his temple, and he went slack on top of me, unconscious.

I pushed him down from me and climbed to my feet.

Holmes was bound to a chair by the wall, which had rather clumsily be clamped to the floor. His gaze fixed the wall vacantly, and even in the dim light of the candle I could see that the grey of his eyes had been swallowed up by the blackness of his pupils.

I put the light as far away as possible, trying to spare him the pain of hurting his eyes as well. His face was flushed red and I assumed by his bloody and torn lips that they had not given him any water.

“Holmes? Holmes, do you hear me?” I rested my hand on his shoulder, but, aside from a shudder, received no visible response. I squinted down to open the knots of the rope that held him, and then caught him as he slipped from the chair. His limp form was too heavy, and we both tumbled to the floor again. My back came up against the wall, and I quickly shifted Holmes into a secure position against my chest to feel his pulse. It was not overly concerning, a little too slow, but I assumed the fatal dose had not been administered. As of now, Holmes did not fight me, but I knew that the periods of unresponsive stupor could quickly alternate with severe delirium.

Along the far wall, the little flasks with the drug were lined up, and I could even spot the bag which contained the syringes. My initial reaction was to smash them all, but I had more pressing concerns at the moment. With all the medical professionalism I could muster, I turned Holmes to face me.

“My dear fellow. Holmes, can you hear me? Holmes?”

Suddenly, he did stir, and reached out to burrow his fingers in the fabric of my coat, which allowed me a glimpse at his wrists. They were bloodied and torn, apparently, he had fought to get free. “Watson?”

“Yes. Yes, old fellow, it is me. Can you focus?”

“Can't... breathe. Watson!”

There was a distinct panic in his voice that turned my blood to ice. “Yes. You can breathe. Listen to me, Holmes. You can. It's the drug. Listen to me!”

“Watson?” I had the impression that only now did he realise I was really there, and not a figment of his imagination, for suddenly he burrowed his head against my shoulder, his sinewy arms tightening around me. His hands clutched the fabric of my coat, and I could feel his trembling.

At first, I was shocked. Holmes, who usually shunned every physical contact, even with me, had never before initiated anything other than a mere handshake, and I could still remember how he stiffened when I embraced him after he had returned from the death. Now, this gesture told me more than I could have assumed. He, Sherlock Holmes, was terrified, shaken to the core, the effects of the drug coming so close to destroying his mind as well as his body. 

And suddenly, something in me snapped, and my fury awoke. It quickly equalled my concern, and when I realised that Holmes was not going to release me soon, that I was the thread that anchored him to reality where the drug had nearly robbed him of his sanity, not only his pride, I found myself quivering with anger, the likes of which I had not known since the war. I was not sure what I would have done to the unconscious man lying just a few feet away from us had Holmes let me go.

His grip, however, was vice-like, as if he feared I would disappear like one of his hallucinations, and he only relaxed a little as I patted his back.

“It's all right, Holmes. You will be fine. The effects of the drug will subside. Twelve hours at the most.”

“It's too bright, Watson. I can't... see.”

“That is because your pupils are dilated. It is only temporary, Holmes. Your vision will be blurred for a while, but it will get better. Shall we get out of here?”

“Baker Street?”

“Of course.”

_Gregson_

The doctor stumbled out of the hut as we arrived, supporting the detective who had burrowed his face in the other man's shoulder.

The girl, the last victim, did show great sensitivity to light, so I was not surprised.

I was, however, quite shocked when the doctor turned to me before he helped his friend into the waiting carriage. His eyes were burning with rage the likes of which I have never seen nor thought this man capable of. “They are all inside. I do hope, Gregson, that you will manage to keep them as long as it takes to get them hanged.”

“Is he all right, Doctor?”

“Fine,” Watson snarled, rendering his words into a atrocious exaggeration. “I take him back to Baker Street. You will find me there.”

_Watson_

Once Holmes was resting on the settee, and Mrs Hudson watching over him in the dim light of the fire, I hurried upstairs to fetch my bag and was in the sitting room just in time to see her giving Holmes something to drink.

We had not lit the gas to soothe his sensitive eyes, but still they were squeezed shut as he sipped eagerly at the water, for once not objecting to Mrs Hudson's motherly ministrations.

Truth be told, I would have liked to see him object, for it would have been normal, and both Holmes, I was sure, and I would have welcomed normality.

I was relieved, though, that he seemed more lucid than he had before, even as he spluttered and Mrs Hudson had to retrieve the glass quickly.

“I am sorry, Mrs Hudson.”

“None of that, Mr Holmes. Keep nice and quiet, and you will soon feel better.”

Even in the dim light, I could see the corners of Holmes's mouth twitch.

“Dr Watson is back,” Mrs Hudson informed him and rose. “I have brought you more water, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

She nodded, her gaze returning to Holmes worriedly before she moved to the door. “I shall be downstairs, if you need me.”

I closed the door quickly behind her ere the bright light of the hallway could disturb Holmes, and went to sit by his legs. “Feeling better, Holmes?”

“Much.” His eyes flickered open for a second, but he shut them again with a frown. “You were certainly right with the dimness of vision.”

“Better you keep your eyes shut at the present.” I prepared my bandages and antiseptic on the floor. “Do you still have difficulties swallowing and breathing?”

“Some. Watson, be careful with that antiseptic.”

“Ah, you deduced it by the smell, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I have to see your wrists. They need to be tended.” I reached for his right hand, but he was quicker than I, closing his fingers around my wrist. “Watson.”

“Yes.”

His next words came as a whisper, but perfectly audible in the silence of our sitting room. “Thank you."


End file.
